Lost Tycho Brahe and Mrs. Longfellow 1985

This episode is brought to you by McAfee. I got a message that our flight was canceled. But they can put us on another flight and we just need to confirm our credit card info. Wait! I got a security alert from McAfee. It flagged that message as a scam. McAfee's scam detector automatically spots and alerts you to suspicious texts, emails, and deep fake videos. Learn more at McAfee.com slash online protection. This is the Mutual Audio Drama Network.

The following audio drama is rated PG for parental guidance. What you're about to hear is the restored audio from the never-aired 1983 pilot of Tycho Brahe and Mrs. Longfellow. Originally filmed as a two-hour made-for-TV special, the video was sadly lost when the production storage facility suffered what investigators called an unlicensed pyrotechnics demonstration gone horribly right. Sadly, the videotape has been lost to time. All that remains is this recording.

salvaged from an audio tape copy that was in the glove compartment of the show's original narrator who was later arrested for unrelated topiary crimes. This audio track was painstakingly preserved on magnetic cassette tape while I served my time. So lean in, dear listeners. For you hold in your ears the only surviving evidence of what might have been television's most groundbreaking crime-fighting duo, Tycho Brahe and Mrs. Longfellow.

We have made no alterations except to bleep out the swearing and the medically necessary increase of saxophone. For example, this opening theme song which had key information on the screen while it plays. the people for a cocktail and crown. This may make some story elements difficult to follow as certain crucial cues were purely visual in nature. So please note.

Certain key scenes rely entirely on visual information. Without the footage, they may be confusing or, frankly, meaningless. Without certain visual cues... You will simply have to imagine what might be happening. Key exposition originally appeared on screen during the theme song. You will not see it. This is not our fault. That is the burden.

He's Tycho Brahe. Danish nobleman, 16th century astronomer, mathematician, with a golden nose, a genius mind, and a habit of quoting Copernicus at cocktail parties. brought to the future by unexplained television science she's mrs longfellow glamorous socialite magazine editor cocktail in hand, never asked to solve a murder in her life. Until now. He sees the stars, she sees the truth. They're an explosive combination.

Literally. Together, they fight crime in America's most dangerous small town. Rumble Falls. Population, 12,000. And climbing. Except not really. Climbing, because of all the murders. Adventure, trigonometry, romance, astronomy. They are Tycho Brahe and Mrs. Longfellow. We regret to inform you that things they are referring to are never verbally identified, but we are airing it anyway. See this? Wow, it's gruesome. Golly, look over there.

Look at this obvious mistake. That changes everything. Let me show you this clue. Oh, my goodness. Look at this right here. This photograph was a key moment in the original pilot. Without it, you will have to imagine a security camera still of Shecky McCall pinning a corsage on a girl. Please. Imagine it now. Good. You pictured the correct one. If you didn't, that's a you thing.

Mars is in retrograde. The perfect time for treachery, Mrs. Longfellow. You, my golden-nosed stargazer, have a perfect nose for truth. Tycho, what's happened? I just found a handwritten note in my crude paper map of the solar system. It's a phone message you wrote saying Police Lieutenant Hasselhoff called about the body. They found it in a Rumble Falls mine shaft yesterday. And you wrote, bring good gin. Oh, that. Well, oh, that. Oh, I...

I was a bit tipsy when I talked that into your scientific papers under romance. Return the jet again? Looks like now we're flying back to Rumble Falls. So much for our romantic getaway. I promise. This is the last time for a long while. That's what you said the 14th time we turned around. Our flight plan is always a circle. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

Grainshot! Excuse me. I'm Tycho Brahe. I'm looking for Lieutenant Chaz Hasselhoff. He called us yesterday. Listen, Tycho Bravo. Brahe. Tycho Brahe. Yeah, whatever, Mr. Ticklebarge. I called you to tell you not to come see the mysterious body they found in the mineshaft. This is police business, not some amateur astronomy experiment. And yet, here we are, with star maps and a portable orrery. A portable what? What are you holding? It's a mechanical model of a clockwork cosmos of brass and...

inevitability. I use it to demonstrate the relative positions and motions of the planets and moons. Now, why don't you want us here? I think you just answered that question. That's not what the note said. A Mrs. Longfellow? I was tipsy. I wrote the gist. The gist was that I asked you not to come back. Especially about the body they found in the Rumble Falls mineshaft yesterday. Lieutenant Sheriff, we may be of some assistance.

Please, my occasional lover, Mrs. Longfellow, and I postponed our romantic getaway to be here to help you. Help? Like when you consulted the stars using a sextant in the Waffle House parking lot. Like that kind of help? Why yes. You have smashed my orrery. Lieutenant Hasselhoff. has, without question, unambiguously smashed Tycho Brahe's orrery, a working mechanical model of the solar system.

The restoration team here would like to take a moment to acknowledge this rare triumph, a key plot moment, communicated entirely through sound. Revel, for once. Audio suffices. An orrery. Slane. A perfect scene. No pictures. Total clarity. Foley artist, I salute you. Writer. I acknowledge you. Me? I adore you. Polish your brass scope somewhere else. And take the real brains of your operation with you. Me? Why are you looking at me?

Are you not his sometimes lover, the inscrutable Mrs. Longfellow? A former lounge singer with a murky past. and a sixth sense of danger. Oh, I am. Then scram! Both of ya! Lieutenant Chaz Hasselhoff here. What?

Mr. Mayor, but, but, they, I, I just, oh, why? But, but why? That was Mayor Gribbins. He wants you to meet him near a crate of TNT over by the mine. I guess that's a good idea. Here, look at this. That changes everything. Good heavens, Tycho. That also explains everything so far. Mrs. Longfellow, how are you, lovely? I haven't seen you since the mining gala ball. Oh, Mayor, your public-spirited political work inspires so many.

I won't be the least bit surprised to find you in a gubernatorial way very shortly. Well, today you're finding me in a murder way. Oh, Mayor. Oh, that shirt fabric. That's Bravani Silk, ruined by coal dust. You really were down there, weren't you? Yes. Well, listen, we have a body. Winner of this year's Miss Dynamite pageant blew up real good. I was wondering if you and your partner could solve it for us. The police are getting nowhere. They're stuck. That's too bad.

Yeah, no, I mean they're really stuck. They're still in the mine. I mean, this whole town is a cesspool because of our so-called law enforcement. That sheriff, Jesus, tap dancing Christ, he's a walking advertisement for why evolution sometimes hits the snooze button. Couldn't find his own ass with both hands a map and a bloodhound on speed dial. Hell, if his hat was nailed to his head, he'd accuse the Hammer of being a suspect.

And don't get me started on his merry band offices. Those slack-jawed, donut-dusted dipshits show up to the crime scene, trip over the chalk outline, blame the victim for poor positioning, and then... Go home to binge watch true crime shows while picking crumbs out of they mustaches. It's incompetence at the highest level.

A carnival of corruption while this town drowns in the diarrhea deluge of their dereliction. Because the entire force is made up of drooling buffoons who... I'm, uh, standing right here. Whew. Prison company excluded. Obviously, Lieutenant, you are the lone beacon of integrity in a swamp of police ineptitude.

I personally hired a lot of them, renewed their contracts with my own rubber stamp, and even threw in that community outreach slush fund that mostly bought them branded golf shirts for their annual fishing trip and this tie I'm wearing. Sure, blame the badge wearers. It's not like I vetoed the ethics probe last year or anything. Thank you. I like your bolo tie, Mr. Mayor. Smooth recovery.

But according to that panic sweat all around that bolo tie, I'd say our mayor just confessed. This arrest was accompanied by a majestic crane shot. Please imagine it now. Trust him. Briskly. Listen, alright, alright. How would I know half those kids would turn out to be men? That's entrapment. Yeah, um...

I was going to say you couldn't be there on the night in question by my calculations. Wait! Wait, no! No! I just realized how that sounds. You see, I gave... gifts and the local toy drive and it turned out to be the men who were taking the toys so it really was just the toys for me toys to the men i thought were kids and unfortunately me again with the baby oil

Clearly the trajectory of your search history is more disturbing than those stains on your shirt. See those, Mrs. Longfellow? It's getting dark. It sure is. I mean, here, outside. Anyone want to see the splatter on the real crime scene? Is there a fast lane for justice? Asking for a very patient woman. I would prefer that. To this. Oh, like you never oiled anything. Let's lower them into the shaft entrance. To the shaft, then. Tycho, sounds like our knight might be looking up. What?

I never understand when you say things like that. What? It's your step, folks. This mine's older than the last time Congress passed a budget without pork. You know, I've always said the best politics underground. That's where the skeletons stay buried and the voters can't exune them for a recount. And the best politicians are six feet under. Pass the flag. This mine shafts deader than democracy after dark money. Yeah.

Here are some flashlights. It's dark and cold down there. Try not to die. The paperwork is a beast. Speaking of which, you're sweating again, Mayor. Quite... Profusely. Indeed. Note the saline saturation rate on his shirt collar. It's consistent with a man under immense moral pressure. Now hang on. Guilt's got you gushing, Mayor Gribbins. It's a practically poetic precipitation. More damning than a Polaroid of the mayor with anyone. And behold.

The trajectory of those sweat drops. They're left aligned, collecting on the clavicle. A classic sign of the guilt tilt. Look, I didn't kill anybody. I was, um... What? What? She's shining that flashlight right in my eyes. Oh, it's so dirty down here to think we had tickets to the gala back east. Now I'm ankle deep in dynamite dust and corpses. Carpses? Oh, that other one over there. Is that not something for this case? They only mentioned the one. Oh, that was another body I stepped on.

It's so dark down here. Another what now? No one said anything about other bodies. Forget it. Let's concentrate on this one here. The one with the ass in it. Oh, it looks like he asked for the full Monty from the hardware aisle. Mrs. Longfellow? Yes, darling? We're all over here by this body. Oh, sure. I'll just come over there. The victim, she is yesterday's winner of the misodynamite pageant. Yesterday's beauty queen of today's constellation. Why, yes. Yes, she is.

Oh, my. No. No. I know. It's a real tragedy. No. I mean, she so didn't deserve to win that beauty pageant. I mean, look at her. Look at her face. That's it there, right? I was this close to being crowned Miss Sensible Hosiery of the Greater Mid-County Rotary. Yes, a real title. embroidered sash, beige with aspirations, and then what? I blinked out of sync one time. I breathed through the wrong nostrils. The judges marked me down for excessive sincerity.

There goes the life. Do I regret it? Only when I'm sober, which, frankly, I treat as a seasonal allergy. I know she had the Vaseline teeth. Pageant walk like a shopping cart that knows its worth. Talent routine involving interpretive jazz mittens. But come on. Miss Dynamite here has self-tanner on her. Where is her other leg? Mrs. Longfellow, she's been, how shall I put it, explosively disassembled. Well, darling, that's certainly one way to work a room. Speaking of...

I am cold down here. Perhaps you and I can go drink to her trajectory and make warming gestures on one another. She had the bad breakup with gravity. Her tibia resembles a fractured tuning fork. Cranial contents redecorated the cavern wall with the viscosity of approximately 1.6 centipoids. Observe how her blood has traveled exactly 14 cubits. and three barleycorn. The splatter density? Seventy-three droplets per square L. It's a perfect experiment, were it not for the absence of her consent.

Well, Tycho, I suppose that's one way to ruin a lady's appetite for champagne. Why did you scream? Did she get the flashlight in your eyes again? No. No, I didn't scream. You absolutely did. I was looking at you. That wasn't a scream. I know a scream. That was one. If I had screamed, and let's be clear, I didn't, it would be a perfectly natural reflex, like sneezing.

A political bribery. Your mouth was open. You screamed loudly in my ear. Well, then I ask you, Maddo, if a man screams in a mineshaft but immediately denies it, was it ever truly him? Maybe I was merely vibrating existentially. Gray, he reached quantum denying. Next, he'll claim the scream both happened and didn't happen until we opened our ears.

I thought you were dumb, Lieutenant. Listen, Hasselhoff. Sound is subjective. What you heard was the echo of my internal monologue, Fleeing Responsibility. I didn't scream. Yes, we watched you do it. Well, maybe it wasn't me. Maybe it was a scream shake echo of someone else's saga. That doesn't make any... Or, or, a reverse echo from the future. Well, I scream later and the sound arrives early. You screamed right in front of us. I respectfully deny your reality and substitute a mild grunt.

Your eyes went wide. You clutched your tie. I was testing my fear glazed. You screamed because you're guilty. I screamed hypothetically as a rhetorical device to simulate what a guilty person might do. I am an empathetic mayor. You yelled, in lowercase, which is technically a murmur. You can't prove I screamed unless you recorded it, and if you did, that's entrapment. And if you didn't... That's his screen, which is inadmissible. I am the screen. Unbelievable. What were you even thinking, Mayor?

I must have startled myself. Thought she maybe took her own life this way. Oh, she was under a lot of pressure in that pageant. Maybe she corsaged herself with the dynamite. Pageant pressure. Those trouser categories are brutal. The other entrant did well in the steel-toed boots and heavy work pens competition. You see, I assimilate guilt to understand criminals.

I'm a feeling, Mayor. Miss Dynamite pageant winner received your novelty corsage. A corsage you, as Mayor, personally pinned on her gown, and then a bin. Oh, I wanted a boom. Economic boom. That is all I approved. The air smells floral. Rose water in a mine. Mark of the dust. Classic drag path. She was moved after death. And then a small charge staged the boon. So, uh, the perfume. That's not normal mind smell.

I thought that that was the corsage. I, uh, I did pin it on her, okay? I-I pinned it. I pin things all the time. You pinned the corsage. Yes! I mean, no. I mean, the ribbon on the podium for the gala. This, well, this is the rosewater and glycerin. My wife makes me use it when I shake hands. That molotai of yours reeks of it, mayor. Rosewater in the shaft. Rosewater on the mayor. Cuff him. Lieutenant Hathelhoff. Hathelhoff. Arrest this man for everything we can think of.

With pleasure. Mayor Gribbins, you're under arrest for the murder of Miss Dynamite. Yeah, if we guilt were a celestial body, he'd be the Ptolemaic model. Deeply flawed and widely debunked. What the hell does that even mean? Not perfume. Sanitizer. See the glycerin sheen on his palm? Yeah, it's not baby oil, this time. And note the podium ribbon pin in his pocket, bent outward. Not the corsage pin. The mayor is venal.

Yes, but the mayor couldn't have done this to her. Because the dynamite did? Aw, it's a good thing you're pretty. Keys, and again. You've arrested the wrong man, Bragi. Could someone at least switch me to my oiled lucer wrist? I found a hole in the sky. According to the position of Orion's belt, the killer must be left-handed. See, Mrs. Longfellow, I knew if I could find the hole here, we'd get some satisfaction. Darling.

You really know how to romance a girl. Yes, yes. Then they go to the local bar. If you could see Tycho Brahe right now, you'd be impressed by the majesty of his windswept, historically inaccurate hair. It is, in fact... Styled in the manner of a 1983 soap opera heartthrob, a choice made by the original production designer who reportedly thought Renaissance chic meant feathered layers and a dash of Aquanet. Excuse me, foreman. I'd like to get in the bar. No problem. I was just leaving, actually.

But you just walked in and stopped directly in front of us. No, I didn't. What is it with the people in this town? Foreman, you're standing between me and the bar as we speak. That's not me. Must be somebody else. You're wearing a hard hat that says... Foreman Steve. Am I? Must have borrowed this from a Steve. A different Steve, not me. You're holding a stick of dynamite. This? This is a candle for romance.

You know, mining romance. It's fizzing. Just ambiance. Why are you questioning me? Well, because you're walking into the bar and you saw us and then froze and then lit that dynamite. Nope. Not me. Never been here. Don't even know what a bar is. Is that, like, a legal thing? You are sweating like a pancake at a griddle orgy. Naturally oily. I exfoliate with gravel. Curious. Denial of spatial presence.

You also have a woman's finger taped to your shirt that says, Evidence A. It's fashion. From London, Arkansas. London, Arkansas. Very Arkansas digit. Oh, Jake. I'm very suspicious of questions. You're visibly shaking. It's the tacos. Darling, I think he's about to confess. I didn't do it. She was already exploded when I got there. Maybe. And also not exploded. And also, I've never heard of her. Or me. You've got nothing. You can't arrest a man for vibe proximity. I'm just standing in America.

That Mrs. Longfellow is reasonable suspicion. With a fuse. Tycho, darling. He says he wasn't there. You've been going over the murder calculations for that poor Miss Dynamite most of the day. Let's have a drink and we'll start committing adorable misdemeanors together. All right, Mrs. Longfellow, you tempt me every time. I think that was a dud. I gotta go get another one. Every time I'm about to have insight into solving the crime. Well, it's so fun to seduce you. You do.

Oh, there's the bartender. Miss! Oh, Mrs. Longfellow. Back again. Another round of bourbons. And a chorus of Total Eclipse of the Heart again. How did you know? Mrs. Longfellow. The boozy socialite with three ex-husbands, two poodles, and one very large bar tab? Why, Tycho, she's wonderful. But I've never been here or... Paid the bill from yesterday when you were in here for hours. Remember?

She's a bit forward, isn't she? Perhaps you have the wrong lady, bartender. Let us abandon this mistake in orbit and fix our sights on something more terrestrial. Your menu? We'd like to order. Quite agree, Stargazer Sugarplum. I don't recall anything she's saying, Tycho. I'm sure you don't. Remember the way you were giving back what the casserole gave forth?

I had to hold your furs, remember? I prefer not to linger on details, especially fictional ones. It's hard to forget a lady giving the toilet a corn harvest for a half hour. Fathom what you mean, young lady. Fine. You declared war on Idaho. Ringing any bells? Pay your old tab and I'd drop the whole thing. I assure you I will. Drop it the way you were sending our potluck playback to the kitchen commode.

Blowing chunks like a snowblower. I'd like to order before I faint. Let's settle that bar tab now. That's enough. Oh, I don't have any pockets in this dress. It's a good thing you don't have pockets. You'd have been yodeling into them last night if you did have them. I'm sure. This place is... Place is looking forward to getting $3,000 and my tip. Yes. $3,000? By all the spheres, woman.

What back right were you conducting? You were working again. I got bored. Bored? That son would have outfitted three caravels and a mule train. Darling, it was karaoke night. I bought a round for the house. Twice. Yes, got in a slap fight over the mic. Then you vomited into a punch bowl and yelled, I'm the dynamite now! The house was over there. Shecky McCall and Miss Dynamite haven't seen other ones since. You drank the rest. Shecky and Miss Dynamite together. Shecky preset.

Two spritzes of Eau de Foreman, number five, grabs the mic with his left, dies on stage. You see, oh, blast it. I would like the Fiesta Lime Chicken. Tycho, darling, you still haven't eaten. Wouldn't you prefer a little something hot, juicy, dripping down your chin? I'd like a fiesta lime chicken. My genius. To go.

Miss Dynamite sang karaoke, too. You know what's really suspicious, Tycho? The way the shaft smelled of rose water, even though it's a harsh mine shaft with dead bodies. That's why our bodice tore and only the dust clung to the left side. Does that mean the body was pushed? God, woman, you may have solved it. Oh.

I was only trying to solve you. By God, she's right. Rosewater. That's what clung to the dust on the victim's left side. That's why the dirt only stuck to one half of her bodice. She was a pushed post-mortem. Then the dynamite exploded in the shaft after she was there. Staged, the real killer used perfume camouflage. That means taking into account his scent displacement. Her body was moved. Tycho, take me now. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.

Fasted woman, my mind cannot function with your distracting advances on my empty stomach. Good barkeep, procure me a pollo de fiesta, enrobed in lime as though kissed by citrus orchards of Andalusia. And let it be charred upon iron, seared with spices as fierce as the wrath of Mars, then set upon a bed of rice not unlike the very sands of Elsinore, and draped in molten cheese as a... the comet wears its tail. Mmm. Cheese. Mmm. Whatever.

Observe, Mrs. Longfellow, the last trajectory of Miss Dynamite. You see here, a geometric overlay of the mine shaft, triangulated with the seismic tremors. Recorded at precisely this time. You see? The way you tap your thumbtacks into that corkboard makes me tingle. Focus, darling. Mineral adhesions on her body suggest prolonged contact with a feldspar. And notice, if we consider torsional stress upon the granite wall, amplified by the shaft's natural acoustics...

Tycho. Torsional stress on the granite wall? The very words make me weak. Take me now. Right here. In that dirty jail cell across the hall. No! Uh-uh. No! Uh-uh, no! No way! The trajectory of the perfume droplets, the crater pattern of blush powder, all point to... The stains on the mayor were the perfume spray, then. We need to arrest him a third time.

No, I wish they were. I really, really do. You smell like dynamite powder and men's cologne. Like the foreman did in the bar, a faint scent of bergamot and betrayal. Yes! Of course, dynamite residual mixed with Eau de Format No. 5. Only one man could exude such a volatile bouquet. Wait, did I just... No, no, no, no need to thank yourself, my dear. I was going to solve it in the bar. You merely harmonized with my line of inquiry. Like a drunken Greek chorus. Oh, a chorus.

Sing to me of torsional stresses again. Lieutenant Hasselhoff, take a note. The foreman's guilt is all but proven by the lingering olfactory top notes upon Mrs. Longfellow's lips. She's drunk, you nitwit. Genius is often mistaken for intoxication. Were the video intact, the killer's motives would be obvious from a single eyebrow and a very meaningful pan to a hamster. Without them, you'll have to accept my word, which is...

Legally binding within this program. I see it. The foreman, Steve, lures her with his musky cologne and promises a free dynamite. Then he pushes her in, covers her with rubble, lights a cigar, walks away. His guilt is more observable than sunspots during the Feast of Epiphany. Arrest him! Marvelous Mrs. Longfellow, a truly inspired, the drunken mind, unclouded by reason, often glimpses the hidden pattern.

There's just one problem, Sunshine. That's the foreman named Steve. The real one, you knucklehead. That is not the foreman we saw at the bar. That's the face on the other body I saw. The one with the axe in his head at the bottom of the shaft. Exactly what I was about to say. We have, in fact, the solve of it did nothing. Except perhaps that gravity remains undefeated. Well, we did arrest Mayor Gribbons. And again. You've arrested the wrong man, Brahi. My logic betrayed me. Darling.

If it makes you feel better, your logic was hard. Right. Thanks for playing. Kindly vacate my station. We've got a crime to solve. It doesn't seem that hard to solve at this point, Lieutenant Hasselhoff. That rose water reek in the elevator shaft says our victim was dressed after the fact. Moved post-mortem. The dust riding only one side of Miss Dynamite's bodice proves it. Your foreman at the bar. imposter. The real foreman's the other stiffsicle with the axe.

The bartender tagged Ms. Dynamite's last companion is Shecky McCall, and Shecky's a southpaw. I've watched him choke a karaoke mic with his left hand, exactly as Tyco's star sighting predicted our killer. See? Here. So, I offered a novelty corsage and he blinched, guarding a fresh detonator burn on his right. That's the tell. Shecky McCall is our murderer, Lieutenant. Cuff the comic.

And yes, Shecky is here, being cuffed. Astonishing only to those who missed his generous visual cameos earlier. You didn't see him because... This is audio and visibility is implied by adjacency to sound. If he felt like a red herring, you now know that Shaggy's existence was continuous and your confusion is...

Retroactively optional. Well, then, Mrs. Longfellow, perhaps we should resign ourselves to a holiday, a romantic retreat. The Caribbean, clear skies, mineral sands, perfect for geological... Perfect for me. Take me now in a cockpit. Disengage the autopilot and let the heavens steer us! Well, yes, I am Zuneswoman. Thou hast taken my calculus of shafts. and strata and replaced it with a most inconvenient prior pick vector kiss me again you fool

Rumble Falls, another exceedingly strange crime. Duty, Rumble Falls, pulls like Saturn's rings. Desire, Mrs. Longfellow pulls harder. Or we keep flying our jet, Tycho. We've never solved these things before. I got lucky with solving that crime. Speaking of, let's champagne, sunset, me, all night above the clouds. Shall I steer this winged chariot back towards duty's somber earth? Or surrender to Eros, blazing hotter than Mars at Apogee?

to turn about towards Rumble Falls, that dingy pit of miners and mischief, or voyage onward into pleasure's constellation. oh vexing stars they pull at me in contrary vectors duty's bleak attraction below are venus herself beside me promising celestial conjunction At 30,000 feet. Come now, Tycho. Turn me around first. Who says justice and passion can't share the cockpit? we see mankind's eternal struggle. Mrs. Longfellow, the tension between power and the virtue. Yes, yes. Basemus, virtue.

You're giving me ideas. Let's make our struggle a little more horizontal. Mrs. Longfellow, please keep the pilot's lap clear during turbulence. We are the turbulence.

Next time on Tycho Brahe and Mrs. Longfellow. A swimsuit model explodes at a mining gala, an outcome statistically common in Rumble Falls. And only a Danish astronomer with a mechanical nose, his elegantly intoxicated companion, and a mayor who once failed the written portion of a blood test can make sense of the... Scattered remains, both literal and emotional. Spoiler alert! They probably won't.

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